The Amateur Horologist
by Sable Supernova
Summary: When Fred died, George would have tried anything to bring him back.


**AN: So a plot-bunny kidnapped me and refused to let me go until I wrote this. Not kidding. This is one of my few one-shots not written for a challenge or competition, too! Just a couple of notes: there is a poem in this story that I broke up into couplets and used as line breaks. Also, horologist means clock maker :)**  
 **Please read and review!**

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 _Eleven hands stood proud on the clock_

 _(It did not tell the time)_

They called it 'the clean-up'. When the war was over and the fighting had ceased, George was sat with what was left of Fred. There were no tears in his eyes left to cry, no strength left to sob. That was when he heard them talking about the clean-up. They made it sound like an uncle had spilled the wine, or a toddler had thrown her dinner. As if all it needed was a bit of cleaning up.

The castle, the safe haven of magical knowledge, was in ruins. The Astronomy Tower had taken a hit; the bridge was only half standing and the classrooms on the third floor were aflame.

If only that was the worst of it.

The background drone in the Great Hall was a painful wail. The din was desperate. The sounds of grief mixed with the sounds of agony, filling the room; George felt as though he didn't belong. Shock had taken over within George and nothing else was real. It was like there was a pane of glass between him and the rest of the world; like his particular grief set him apart.

 _On May the second, a hand fell off_

 _(Struck low before his time)_

When he returned to the Burrow, with his family, the first thing he saw was the clock. In recent months, there had been eleven hands on that clock, each fixed at 'Mortal Peril'. He stared now, routed to the spot. Ten hands were making their way to 'Home' as the Weasleys, along with Harry and Hermione, made their way in, together and safe at last. These hands were not what George was looking at. Behind the glass, resting gently in the bottom of the clock face, was an eleventh hand, fallen from its place. On its arm read, 'Fred'.

"Oh, George," Molly began, tears beginning to form themselves in her eyes once more.

George didn't hear her. He stepped forward and grabbed the clock, tearing it from the wall, and raced up the stairs with the magical timepiece in his arms.

 _And a hand can never be replaced_

 _(Each one a unique part)_

George stopped sleeping; he barely ate. He poured over the clock meticulously for weeks. At first, he took the glass off the front and tried to re-attach the fallen hand that way. After a few days, he gave up on that. It wasn't working, as if the clock didn't want the hand back. He only spoke when spoken to; he didn't laugh; he didn't cry. He didn't seem to feel anything.

They all tried to break through to him. It was like they took it in turns to knock on his door and step in to the room he once shared. Their soft, hesitant words encouraged him to come downstairs, to eat with the family, to leave the clock. He wouldn't hear it.

"I need to fix it," was his defence. That was all he was trying to do.

When fixing it from the front didn't work, he drew his wand and stole screwdrivers from his father's shed. He deftly took the clock apart, all the screws and cogs placed carefully on his desk and labelled, so he knew where to put them back. The first time it failed, he thought he must have done something wrong. The second time, he decided the clock was working against him, and realised he had to best it, beat it at its own game. Seven times he tried.

After it had failed the seventh time, the pieces strewn over his desk while the frame sat empty, mocking, in his hands, his mother knocked on his door.

"George, can I come in?"

George stared at the hollow wood, motionless. He didn't respond to his mother. He wasn't sure he remembered how to communicate anymore. He stared at the empty shell and was forced to admit that the clock didn't want Fred's arm back.

Molly pushed open the door gently, stepping into the room with a mother's concern. She moved cautiously towards him, not wanting to move too quickly in case it scared him. She wasn't sure he was even aware of her presence.

"George, you really should leave the clock be now," she said, as gently as she could.

George picked the clock up and threw it, all the strength he had left shooting through the muscles in his arm. His mother flinched as it hit the wall, leaving a mark on the ivory paint as it shattered and splintered, falling to rest in dozens of tiny shards on the floor.

"I just want to fix it! Why can't I fix it!?" he shouted, and before he was aware of his own actions, he was taken over by wracking sobs. He was blinded by his own tears as he shakily brought his hands up to cover his face, curling in on himself as he shook violently, strangled by the sounds echoing from his own lungs. Molly rushed to his side and wrapped her arms around her son, her own tears falling into his soft hair as she clung to him as tightly as she could, never saying a word.

She just held him, knowing there was nothing she could do to take the pain away.

 _Just as a boy retains a place_

 _Within his brother's heart._


End file.
